


bring the columns down

by ohtempora



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Age Difference, Developing Relationship, Los Angeles Dodgers, M/M, One Night Stands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-25 20:32:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13220682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohtempora/pseuds/ohtempora
Summary: “Hi, I’m really sorry,” someone says behind him, sounding nervous. Chase starts. “But are you Chase Utley?”Chase is feeling magnanimous after the win; sometimes at away games he can get away with a “Sorry, no,” and a tight quirk of his lips that people construe as a smile, but this time he turns around. It’s a young guy asking, 21 at most, managing to look both hesitant and awed.“Yeah,” he says. “Yep. Hey.”“Hi,” the kid says again.“Didn’t expect to find a Phillies fan out here,” Chase says.“No, uh,” the kid says. “I play too.”





	bring the columns down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [luciferinasundaysuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferinasundaysuit/gifts).



> many, many thanks to Sharksdontsleep for the beta, and to the friends who listened to me complain about this/narrate my writing process ad nauseum, you are rock stars. also thank you to baseball-reference. i truly appreciate your comprehensive box scores, your pxp with pitches shown, and that you tell me how many games back a team was at any given time. 
> 
> i hope you enjoy this fic, luciferinasundaysuit!!!

They score four runs in the ninth inning to take three of four from the Dodgers, and Chase is feeling good. The Dodgers should carve up the National League, everyone knows it, and Philadelphia managed to take the series from them. One close win, one good win, one blowout. Not bad for the middle of a West Coast road trip.

No one wants to admit they don't know how long the team can play at this level. But hey, they're at .500. Three and a half games back in the NL East. Nothing that feels insurmountable, not just yet.

A few of them head out, finding a bar Howard says is relatively quiet, planning on a couple drinks before tomorrow's flight to Arizona. Chase is tired, but he doesn’t want to watch TV in the hotel by himself. He buys a round of drinks for the guys, sits for a while, then lingers at the bar with his beer. The television is replaying the night’s NBA playoffs, Clippers versus Golden State, and he watches absently. He’ll go back and join everyone else in a bit. 

“Hi, uh, I’m really sorry,” someone says behind him, sounding nervous. Chase starts. “But are you Chase Utley?”

Chase is feeling magnanimous after the win; sometimes at away games he can get away with a “Sorry, no,” and a tight quirk of his lips that people construe as a smile, but this time he turns around. It’s a young guy asking, 21 at most, managing to look both hesitant and awed.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yep. Hey.”

“Hi,” the kid says again.

“Didn’t expect to find a Phillies fan out here,” Chase says, starts patting down his pockets. He didn’t think to grab a Sharpie, but maybe there’s a pen somewhere; he can sign one of the bar napkins.

“No, uh,” the kid says. “I play too.”

Chase squints, taking a closer look. The kid’s skinny in a way Chase remembers from when he was 20 and playing at UCLA. Gawky. Moves his limbs like he doesn’t know how to use them yet. Sharp features hidden under a layer of puppy fat, bright blue eyes. But he’s got ballplayer muscle packed on in his arms and thighs. He’s not wearing any team gear, MLB or otherwise. 

“Oh?” Chase picks at the label on his beer. Could be a college player, maybe a Bruin. “UCLA? Cal State? You’re a native?”

“No, I don’t play college. It’s just the California League. The Quakes.”

“You legal to be in this bar?” 

The kid laughs. “No, but I’m tall enough that they don’t always card me.” He holds his hand out. “Corey.”

“Chase,” Chase says, even though the kid clearly already knows. Corey’s got a firm handshake. Chase looks over towards the table, but Revere is busy arguing about football with Howard, and Ruiz is texting, and no one is paying attention to him and some starry-eyed minor leaguer.

“I watched you all the time when I was a kid,” Corey says, and then flushes hot. “Sorry, I know you probably hear that a lot.”

“Not necessarily in an enemy city,” Chase says. He doesn’t feel that old, until he thinks about how it’s been five years since the loss to the Yankees. Six years since the win. Three years of injuries and knees that still hurt sometimes. “And, you know— thanks.”

“I should be honest and say we grew up Yankees fans,” Corey says. “But, um. Still.”

“Yankees fans?” 

Corey laughs, rueful. “My parents were from New York, I didn't have a choice.”

“It's weird,” Chase says. “When you stop rooting for the team you grew up with.” He can't remember any minor-league affiliates that aren't the Phillies, but the sentiment still holds. “I did in college, and that's probably longer than most people get.” A heated argument about the NFL draft seems to have started among the guys back at the table. He doesn't want to get in the middle of it. 

Corey notices him looking. “Oh, I don't mean to keep you,” he says. 

Chase shakes his head. “You're fine, I swear.”

“Okay,” Corey says.

“I’ve argued about football enough with my teammates to serve out the rest of my career.” He cares some, does the team fantasy football league every year, but that's good enough for him. “Hey, don’t you guys play every day in the Cal League?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“So, you skipping out, or something?” Chase raises his eyebrows, watches Corey take a sip of his beer before he answers.

“Hamstring,” Corey says. He shrugs. “I fucked it up last night, didn’t play tonight. They said it’d be okay if I went to the Dodgers game, instead of, uh. My roommate said I was sulking.”

Chase can’t help his laugh. 

“I’m not saying he’s wrong,” Corey says. He grimaces, then laughs too. 

It’s so unserious, is the thing. A hamstring strain. Seven days out of commission, sandwiched by the determination to play through it. Everyone experiences it at some point in their career. 

“I'm sure you'll be fine,” Chase says. “You'll be able to walk and chew gum again soon enough.”

“Tall order,” Corey says. He smiles, and then it crumples. “It's just, I know they’re probably gonna put me on the DL tomorrow and I hate not playing. We lost last night, we’ve lost every game for like two weeks and I can’t even help —” Corey bites his lip. “Sorry. I know you don’t, like. Care about some shitty A-ball team across the country from you.”

He’s so pink, and Chase is charmed by it, not only the hero worship but the way the kid smiles at him, the way his lips curve up at the corners, and Chase says, “Look, lemme buy another round.”

‘You don’t have to,” Corey says. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t mean it,” Chase says. He holds Corey’s gaze for a moment, and Corey swallows, nods.

Chase comes back with a couple more beers. Howard cornered him at the other end of the bar, but let him go easy enough when he said the kid he was talking to was a prospect. “Can’t believe we’re the wizened veterans now,” Ryan said with a laugh, and Chase raised his bottle in a mock toast. 

“Thanks,” Corey says, and takes the bottle from him. Chase clinks their drinks together — he doesn't know why he's struck with the urge, but it gets another smile out of Corey. 

They end up talking more baseball. Chase has a few stories from when he was at UCLA, and they compare; when Chase was in the minors it was 40 games in low A, a season in high A, but he was drafted in the first round fresh off three years of college ball. He knew by then it'd only be a matter of time. 

“They didn't let me play the infield as a college freshman,” Chase says. Corey blinks at him — and god, he would have been in elementary school at the time — and then laughs in disbelief. “No, really. I DH’d. Turned down the Dodgers for the Bruins, and there I was, not even a signing bonus in hand, not allowed to play second base.”

“That's like —” Corey grins, white teeth flashing in a wide smile. “One of those stories they tell you about working hard. A fable, whatever it is.”

“A tale,” Chase says, and Corey keeps smiling. It’s a good look for him, Chase thinks. He’s got a good face for it. Corey’s leaning in toward him, and Chase lets himself lean in, too.

“Yeah.” Corey’s really got a good smile. Not like Chase, who rations out the genuine ones, forces out the rest. Corey smiles easily. Chase has known him for about half an hour and he can still tell. 

They talk more baseball, for a while. Corey’s smart, picks up on what Chase is saying fast. He doesn’t say a lot about himself, wants to hear stories about the big leagues — mentions a brother who plays, though doesn’t say where. Eventually, Chase finds himself talking about 2007 and losing in the division series but knowing they were better than their ending, then 2008, the way baseball feels when it’s good. The crack of the bat, the grass under your cleats, the roar of the crowd. Winning it all. It’s sentimental, maybe. He doesn’t let himself go there too much.

“It’s what I’ve wanted forever,” Corey says. “Since I was little. Like, all I’ve wanted.”

“You have to work hard,” Chase says.

Corey licks his lip. Chase doesn’t mean to watch, but he does, and Corey catches him. They’re sitting needlessly close. Corey says, “I know. I want to.”

Stupidity, and the terrible want boiling underneath it, makes Chase ask, “Do you wanna get out of here?”

Corey takes a sharp breath and then he looks at Chase like he can't believe it. “Yeah,” he says. “Obviously. Um. I mean, yes. But your teammates?”

“Probably left by now,” Chase says, and sure enough, when he leans to look at their table, everyone is gone. 

“Okay,” Corey says. “Then yeah.”

Chase touches his wrist, because he can, now; he's allowed more than their knees knocking together underneath the table. “Not the team hotel,” he says, and Corey nods, looking relieved. “I’ll get a room somewhere else.”

They take a cab to some chain hotel, where a bored receptionist hands over the room key without looking at his face. The room is clean, which is all Chase needs. 

He did this more before the last spate of injuries. Guys on the road, usually in big cities where baseball isn’t the main attraction, who don’t know or care what he does for a living. It’s been a while; still, he knows the routine. But Corey lingers by the door once it’s shut behind him, looking uncertain.

“Don’t go to hotels much?” Chase asks.

“Not for, uh.” Corey’s face is red. “You know. Usually they come back to my place, or I go over there.”

“Please don’t tell me you're going to dorm rooms,” Chase says, and Corey has the grace to look sheepish when he laughs. Chase takes a couple steps towards him, reaches up — the kid is so tall — and cups Corey’s face, pulling him down into a kiss. 

They back up against the door, hands wandering, still kissing. Corey lets Chase pin him by the hips, touches Chase's hair tentatively, getting a hand in it when Chase mumbles something affirming. He can feel Corey hard against his hip, slips his leg in between Corey's knees so Corey can grind against him until he’s panting. 

Eventually, they work their way across the room to the bed. Chase pauses and then sits, trying to tug Corey down with him, but Corey doesn't go. 

“I want to,” Corey says, and he sinks to his knees. 

“You okay doing that, with your hamstring?”

Corey rolls his eyes up at him. “It's a strain. They're like, overcautious.” 

And yeah, Chase remembers being young, remembers thinking his own body was indestructible. Nothing will convince Corey otherwise until the inevitable injuries happen, so he says, “Alright,” and lets his legs fall open. 

Corey touches his thighs, skirting his hands over the edges of the gameday bruising scattered across Chase’s skin. Chase wonders if it’s mirrored on Corey’s body, the nicks and bumps of nights spent playing ball. Corey breathes hot over the head of Chase's dick, then closes his eyes and wraps his hand around the base. Chase is turned on by the image of it, Corey's eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, his mouth pink and open. 

He starts off slow at first, sucking and working Chase over with his hand. He keeps peering up, inching forward on Chase’s dick, until Chase says, “You're doing good,” his voice rough. He's got time, and Corey's growing in confidence. He thrusts and Corey opens his mouth around him, taking it, looking up at Chase with those bright blue eyes. Chase can't help the noise he makes, loud and kind of embarrassing. He rubs his hand over the back of Corey's head.. 

Corey’s got a rhythm going now, working with his hand what he can’t get with his mouth. It’s wet — he’s drooling, a little, and Chase reaches down and swipes at it with his thumb. Corey looks up at him, and Chase says, “It’s okay.” He touches the edge of Corey’s lower lip, gets a satisfied hum. Corey keeps going. Chase sees him press a hand against himself, needing to relieve pressure. It gets Chase closer to the edge, knowing Corey’s getting off on this too. 

“I’m gonna,” he says, and Corey pulls off and jerks him the rest of the way, hand moving slickly over Chase’s dick. He’s still on his knees, still looking up, and Chase groans and comes, toes curling, spilling over Corey’s hand and wrist. He wants to collapse back on the bed, but Corey’s on the floor, and he reaches down, pulls him up until they both fall, ungainly, onto the mattress.

“Uh,” Corey says, and he swallows, wipes his mouth with his hand. Chase gives him a quick kiss.

“Lie back,” he tells Corey, and Corey does, his hands fluttering at his sides. Chase scrapes his teeth over Corey’s hip to make his stomach muscles jump, soothing away the slight sting with a kiss. He wants to get his mouth on Corey’s skin. He’s got time, though, and so he does, peppering him with kisses, leaving a couple tiny marks until Corey’s gasping, straining upwards, making all kinds of noise.

“Here,” Chase says, and holds his hand up to Corey's mouth. “Get it wet.”

“Oh,” Corey says, and then he drags his tongue across Chase’s palm; it's a good image, a reminder that a few minutes ago Corey was sucking dick, on his knees for Chase. When he gets his hand back on Corey's dick, it's an easy slide. 

“Can I,” Corey says, swallowing, taking a moment. His mouth is open, and Chase knows that Corey wants to keep kissing. He leans in, kisses him hard, wants to make it memorable for reasons he doesn't entirely understand. Corey's so hard when he reaches down, and Chase strokes him slowly, doesn't want him to come yet. Teasing Corey, a little, but not wanting to take it too far. He remembers what it was like to be 19. 

“Fuck,” Corey says. He's got a hand twisted in the sheets, clenching the fabric; his knuckles are white from the force of his grip. 

"You're doing so good," Chase says, keeping it slow. He gets Corey off like that, steady, Corey rocking up into his hand, Chase scattering kisses over his chest and throat. He draws it out as long as he thinks he can, until Corey is red-faced and panting and saying his name. Chase doesn’t get to hook up like this all too often. He wants to make the most of the time they have. 

He gets Corey to say please, rubbing his thumb right under the head of Corey’s dick. “Yeah,” Chase says, lips moving against Corey’s skin. “So good.”

Corey bites his own lip when he comes, stifling a moan, eyes fluttering closed, and Chase kisses him. Can’t help how much he wants to. He doesn’t want to go back to the hotel yet.

He has to, though. Go back to his team, to his real life, where he doesn’t fuck other ballplayers. Where he’s careful, and doesn’t let himself slip.

Corey’s lying flat on his back, chest heaving. He’s so tan against the sheets, there's come drying on his hip, and fuck, Chase should feel so much worse about this than he does. He won a World Series when Corey was in high school, for Christ’s sake.

“I’ll be right back,” Chase says, and touches Corey’s shoulder before he gets up out of bed, grabbing his phone and underwear. He takes stock of himself when he’s in the bathroom. He isn't too wrecked. He'll be able to shower back at the hotel, get himself cleaned up. Curfew is a lost cause but as long as he makes the call for the plane he'll be alright. 

Chase splashes some water on his face, calls a Uber from the bathroom. When he heads back out, Corey is lying across the bed, watching him. Corey's got a hand resting on his stomach, and he's decent, inasmuch as yanking the top sheet up around his waist counts. 

“Hey,” Corey says. 

“Hey,” Chase says. He picks up the rest of his clothes and starts to get dressed. “I’m sorry — I gotta go back to the team hotel tonight, can’t show up in the morning before we fly to Arizona. But check out is at 10 and the room is paid for. You should stay, if you want.” It's better than driving back out to the suburbs at one in the morning to, he suspects, sulk about not being able to play. 

Corey stretches, the sheets twisting around him. An expression flits across his face, too quick for Chase to catch. “Alright,” he says. “Thanks.” 

But he understands — he must, Chase thinks. Chase tends to mostly consider drawbacks, but it’s one of the benefits of hooking up with another ballplayer, especially one in the minors. 

On impulse, Chase leans down, pressing their lips together one more time before he goes. Tries to say thanks with the kiss, though he doesn’t know if he succeeds. 

No one is awake when he gets back to the hotel. He manages to slip into his room quietly, manages to sleep well. They head to Arizona and lose the first game, win the next two, head back to the East Coast. The season blurs into its familiar rhythms, April slipping into May fading into June. He makes the All-Star Game for the first time in a couple years. The Phillies finish last in the division. It’s an even year and the Giants win the World Series. He worries about news of the hookup getting out, but it doesn’t, and eventually it becomes another fleeting image in his mind when he’s jerking off — Corey’s mouth wrapped around him, Corey’s blue eyes looking up at him — and that’s the end of it, really. He goes to bars in the offseason and picks up California tourists who don’t know who he is. A year goes by, and the team doesn’t improve. He says he wants to stay, but it gets harder to mean it every game.

And then the Phillies go under, truly tear it all down, and he waives his no-trade clause.

 _two_.

Corey’s in his living room in Oklahoma City, smarting from a shitty afternoon loss to Reno and thinking about what else he wants to eat, when Scott looks up from his phone. He says, “Hey, look at that, the Utley trade finally went through,” and it’s enough to make Corey stop in his tracks. 

“Here?” he asks. Scott gives him a weird look.

“Not to OKC, dumbass.”

“You know what I mean.” 

Scott rolls his eyes. “Yes, to the Dodgers. For Sweeney and Richy.”

“Sweens didn’t text us,” Corey says. He fumbles for his phone, but he doesn’t have any messages.

“He’s probably packing up, makes sense that he didn’t play. Plus I didn’t see him hanging around after the game. I bet he replaces Utley at second for the Phillies.” Scott looks through his phone some more. Corey comes over to peer over his shoulder; Scott’s on the MLB website. “Yeah, reporting to Philly. That’s cool.”

“Good for him,’ Corey says. It comes out faint. 

“I guess he'll play soon. He finished out the game.”

“Sweens, or Utley?”

“Utley,” Scott says. “Wow.”

Corey echoes him. “Wow.”

“You’re being kinda strange,” Scott says. 

“Not really,” Corey protests. “I’m just, you know.”

“I don’t know, Corey.”

“It’s not a big deal. I liked watching him back in high school.”

“I’m sure you used to look at his video, being all studious and shit, trying to beat your brothers.” Scott puts his phone down, stretches, arms reaching up over his head. “You'll be hearing soon. You know you’re gonna be one of the September callups.”

“Don’t jinx it—”

Scott holds his hand up. “Shut the fuck up, dude. That’d be neat, for you — you’d finally get to meet him.”

“Super cool,” Corey says, voice gone stringy, and Scott gives him another weird look before clearly deciding it’s best to drop the topic of Chase Utley altogether. They get a pizza, and Corey focuses on how to play better tomorrow, and jerks off in the shower again to the memory of last spring, which is cool, because nobody in the world will ever, ever know what happened. Who knows how long Utley will stay in LA, anyway. Deadline rentals can go any which way. For every guy who re-signs, there’s two who don’t.

Except Scott’s right, and two weeks later Corey gets called up to the show.

-

They want him to meet the team in San Diego. He finds out about 1:30 in the morning about the callup. They've booked him on a 10 AM flight. When the big club wants you, you drop everything and seize the chance, especially when the starting shortstop is on the DL. Corey packs blindly and calls his parents from the airport. They're both crying, and he promises to make sure they can come see him play his first game in the MLB.

Corey can barely sit still on the plane. He remembered to grab his headphones and tablet, but when he tries to watch an episode of Entourage, he's too jittery to focus. 

He calls Kyle when he's landed in California, waiting at baggage claim. Kyle's heard by then, from their parents and apparently half the Mariners clubhouse. 

“I told everyone how good you were last year,” Kyle says. “Fuck, when I was your age, I was still pounding blue cups in the courtyard of He's Not on pint night. Congratulations, buddy.”

“It feels really weird,” Corey says. 

Kyle laughs. “Yeah, I remember that. Enjoy it, okay? Or do your best. Everything speeds up when you hit the majors. And hey, I threw up twice before my first game, so if you don't yak, you'll already be doing better than me.”

For a brief moment Corey wants to tell him. It's not just the hugeness of the MLB, it's — last spring he hooked up with Chase, and now he'll be on a team with him, which he never thought would happen in a million years when he gathered up his courage in a dark Los Angeles bar. He wants to say out loud Kyle's right, it's all happening too fast already, and he thinks he can handle most of it but that might make it too much. 

If he’s lucky Chase won’t remember. If he’s lucky, he’ll keep his cool, and no one will notice him being freaked out and awed. Corey had expected an autograph and a handshake. He hadn’t expected the Chase’s attention, even if he’d thought about it before, picturing the ways they might meet. The full breadth of it, Chase wanting him, listening to him babble about the minors, taking him to bed and taking him apart.

He can't explain this over the phone in the San Diego airport, though, and certainly not the first part. Kyle wouldn’t care about the guys, but he’d care about someone older, someone much more well-known. He takes a moment before he says, “I gotta get my bag. I'll call you later, though.”

“Of course,” Kyle says. “You're gonna be amazing out there. Just like I told ‘em.”

“Thanks,” Corey says. He heads to arrivals, where there's a driver waiting for him, and sits in the back of the car and tries very hard to remember how to breathe. 

-

Petco Park is beautiful. It's a sunny San Diego day. Corey is greeted by Mattingly, who shakes his hand, says he’s happy Corey’s here, and shuttles him off to another member of the coaching staff. They tell him about batting order and the starting pitchers and, “Just do your best out there to not fuck it up, we've got you covered.” They've got decent facilities down in OKC but even the visiting clubhouse here is nicer. 

There's a Dodgers jersey, waiting for him in a stall, grey and blue. Corey touches it almost reverently. 

Joc finds him, then, and promptly takes it upon himself to reintroduce Corey to all the guys, toting him through the clubhouse like a proud older brother. He remembers people from spring training, of course; Scott, called up a couple days earlier, makes sure to slap his ass to say hello. Joc yanks Corey towards some of the vets, even though Corey might have hung back from them this early on — it's fine. Adrian Gonzalez shakes his hand and gives him a warm, genuine smile. Latos is starting, is already in the zone with headphones on, but he manages a wave. 

“And over here we got the Man,” Joc says, beaming ear to ear, and he drags Corey over to Chase Utley's locker. 

Chase is shorter than he remembers. He looks a little bit older, a few more lines branching out from the corners of his eyes. He gets up and shakes Corey's hand. Doesn't smile, but his face is friendly enough, and free of the spark of alarmed recognition Corey fears. 

“It's really nice to meet you,” he manages. He's pretty sure he's blushing. 

“We've heard a lot of good things,” Chase says. His gaze is direct and sharp, and it hits Corey again, what it’s like to be the center of Chase’s attention. “You ready?”

“Um,” Corey says. He is. He wants to throw up, but he is. “Yes?”

That does get him a head nod, and then Joc is pulling him away to embarrass himself in front of Kershaw and Ellis. Corey tries to ignore the weird heat in the pit of his stomach. It's better, Chase not recognizing him, but even that brief brush of their hands makes Corey remember. 

So he's not over it, but that's fine. He's got other issues to focus on today. He's in the show. He's going to be making his debut in a few hours, holy shit, he needs to focus on not running off to throw up. 

-

Kyle's right: Playing in the MLB is faster. 

Corey thinks he's floating on air. He puts in the uniform with his name on the back, his number, his team on the front. It's a night game, Petco mostly full, clear weather. 73 degrees at first pitch. Good baseball weather. 

He’s got roaring in his ears.

There's a mob of fans waiting for him, shouting out good luck and holding out baseballs for him to sign. He's batting eighth, Joc the leadoff hitter for tonight. 

Earlier, he checked the standings. The Dodgers have six and a half games on the Giants and they won last night. If he makes a mistake, it'll matter, but he's got breathing room. 

7:10 PM. The game starts. Joc flies out. Corey knows he's leaning all his weight on the rail, knows he must look like a little kid with the way he’s gaping, but he doesn't care. 

Chase is batting second. He takes a couple practice swings. He's got a mean swing, steps in and out of the box. They’ve got the shift on for him. He draws a walk on six pitches, one called strike, one foul. 

Over the years Corey's watched a lot of baseball games. A lot of Phillies games, Yankee games with the Core Four, Kyle and the UNC team at the College World Series. Once he was drafted, he added a lot of Dodgers games to the slate. This is still a trip. 

Gonzalez is up to bat next. Corey squints into the fading light. Baseball sounds the same here, but louder. The crowd’s vaguely restless. Gonzalez takes a ball, then strikes out swinging. Turner bats fourth. He grounds out. One runner left on base, no runs scored.

Bottom of the inning. Corey jogs out onto the field. Upton scores Solarte, that’s one; Gyorko scores Upton, and Corey tries to dive for it, misses, fuck fuck fuck. Just like that they’re down by two. 

Top of the second. Crawford doubles. Rea strikes out Grandal, and then Van Slyke is at the plate and Corey’s on deck. His uniform is dirty already. He wants more, though, the dirt you get from sliding home. He rolls his shoulders, adjusts his helmet, practices his swing. Van Slyke grounds out, but Crawford’s on third in scoring position. 

First pitch is a strike, in the catcher’s glove before he has a chance. “Two more,” some fan yells, the sound floating down from the stands. He swings at the next pitch, but it’s a fastball and it beats him clean. He sucks in some air. He’s faced Rea in the minors before, he’s got this-- next one’s a ball, count 1 and 2. Another ball, 2-2. He adjusts his equipment again, fouls one off. And then it’s a strike, again landing neatly in the catcher’s glove, and he’s out. Corey spits, blinks a couple times. Welcome to the big leagues.

The Padres score two in the second, deepening the hole to 0-4. Rea gets the next three Dodgers out, Latos gets the next four Padres out. Nothing gets going in the fourth, either. Van Slyke’s up, then he’s out, and Corey’s at the plate.

First pitch is a strike. He tenses up. And then-- the pitch comes in, and he swings, it’s a line drive to deep right-- he runs, and doesn’t breathe until he’s on second base. It doesn’t hit him for a long moment that he’s on second base. First major league hit, second at-bat, holy shit.

Scott advances him to third, and the third base coach fistbumps him. The shift’s on for Joc, he takes a big lead off the base-- Joc singles, a funny bouncing hit, and Corey scores. He gets high-fived in the dugout, chases after Scott for an extra one before leaning on the rail to stand next to him and watch Chase’s at-bat. 

Chase doubles, Joc scores, and they’re back in the game.

By the time he’s up to bat again they’re up 7-4, and he gets another hit, a single. He grounds out in the eighth inning, but still: two hits. 

But baseball’s a funny thing. The Padres score four runs in the bottom of the eighth, and they lose the game. 

It would have been nice to win his first MLB game. It almost doesn’t matter. The guys are loose enough in the room afterwards, high-fiving him, touching him, slapping his ass.  

“One hell of a way to start,” Gonzalez says to him when they’re back in the clubhouse, after he’s found his parents and hugged them and thanked them. “Keep it up, okay?”

“I’ll try,” Corey says, and clears his throat. It's crazy, standing in a big league clubhouse, talking about his play with Adrian Gonzalez. “I will.” That gets him a smile, and a squeeze to his elbow. He’d thought there might be more tension after a loss, but they’re holding onto their division lead by a lot. LA is a lot better than their Triple-A counterparts.

Even with the loss it’s his first game in the show, and they bring him a beer and a shot. “Since you can’t go to the bar,” Joc crows, like he’s that much older than Corey is. Puig’s holding the shot and a can of whipped cream, and Corey groans.

“You get this after,” Puig says, dangling the beer from one hand. They put the shot down on a table, and Puig squirts a veritable mountain of whipped cream into the glass.

“Oh my god,” Corey says. Wood’s got his camera out, filming. Joc is cheering, and Turner too. He crosses his hands behind his back and leans in and takes the shot, wrapping his mouth around the glass, managing to down it all without spilling Jameson down his front. The whipped cream ends up on his nose. Puig claps him hard on the back, then hands him a towel and the beer.  

Half the team was watching — Chase, too, Corey realizes, from farther back, not quite joining in. He takes a gulp of the beer.

“Popped that cherry,” Turner says, plucking the beer out of his hand and taking a sip himself. “Got your first MLB hit. How’s it feel, rookie?”

“Scary,” Corey says honestly, and Turner laughs. 

“That goes away,” he says, and someone else calls out, “Man, speak for yourself,” and the room erupts into laughter. 

“Good first day?” Kendrick asks later, when they’re back at their lockers, getting ready to head to the hotel. Corey’s done his interviews by then, given his quotes on what it feels like. It’s mostly babbling— he thinks he says the word grateful five times, and surreal just as many— but the media seems satisfied. There are a lot more people who want to hear him talk today than there were yesterday in Oklahoma City.

“You know,” he says. “Yeah, it was.”

-

Corey plays the next day, and the next.

He doesn't let up. They continue the series against San Diego, and he doesn't score a home run his next time out, but he's getting hits, he's getting on base, and he's doing it against big league pitching. Chase is in the infield with him, at 2B with Corey at short, and they make plays together, almost like he'd pictured when he was a freshman in high school watching the Phillies win it all. 

Sure, he fucks up sometimes, but he can't let it get him down. The way things are going, Corey wonders if this is a precursor of next year. End the season as you want to begin. 

“I told everyone you were good,” Kyle crows on the phone. 

“Shut up,” Corey says. “If we played you guys again this year you'd be busy telling your teammates every weakness I have.”

“Obviously.” Kyle's shrug is practically audible over the phone. “But we don't, so I can brag instead.”

“You're the worst,” Corey tells him, and Kyle laughs. They chat a little longer — both his brothers are catching games when they can, highlights when they can't. 

Four days in San Diego, four games in the majors under his belt. They win the series and head to Anaheim. Everyone keeps telling him that playing his first game at Dodger Stadium will be something else. 

He can’t look at Chase without blushing, half the time. Probably the rest of the guys think it’s hero worship. Joc’s told them enough, even in Corey's short time up, how Corey would study Chase’s game tape back in middle school, back before the MLB was anything more than a teenage fantasy.

But Chase is nice to him. Stands around while Corey’s taking batting practice, points out things he’s noticed, tiny adjustments he might want to make. He hung back the first couple days, but Corey’s playing regularly, and Chase has stopped being recalcitrant. 

It occurs to him that Chase is new too, feeling out his place on the team after a whole career where he was a constant, and maybe it’s not only about Corey. As the days go on he splits his time between the older guys and Corey, Joc, the other callups, doles out pieces of advice and extra information on guys he’s faced before. The vets get the best seats on the plane, but Chase says ‘hi’ when they’re boarding last, has a wave if not a smile when Corey walks past him.

Corey gets his first home run. It’s a good game, overall. They got blown out the night prior but the team plays like they collectively decided to not let it happen again. They pitch around Goldschmidt, get out of tough spots; seven relievers make it into the game, yet they hold on for the win. Joc has three hits. 

Corey goes four for four, which feels insane, the crack of the bat, skidding into first. De La Rosa throws inside on him during the third, a 97 mile per hour fastball, but he sends an RBI single up the middle — that’s one. Pop fly, fan interference, okay. The next pitch he homers, it’s going it’s going, oh my god, and the game’s 8-3, a solo shot, the Dodgers fans at Chase Field screaming for him. He rounds the bases, gets a high five from Mattingly when he’s back in the dugout, and — nothing. Rookie silent treatment.

It’s perfect. 

He gets the high-fives later, gets slapped on the ass, his hair messed with. They come away with the win, 9-5, in the end standing on solid ground. After the game the press swarms him, and he says, “It comes with being a rookie. I kind of embrace it, and it’s a lot more fun that way.” He’s got a million texts, opens the ones from his brothers and parents and ignores the rest. 

They have a day game the next day, so no one does anything crazy to celebrate. He calls his parents back in the hotel room, trying to tamp down the adrenaline so he can get some sleep. They win their next game, too, and then it’s back to Los Angeles to face the Rockies. They win the first game. Corey thinks about all the losing he did, back in the minors, the farm team always worse than their parent. He likes this better.

Tuesday, it’s the next game against the Rockies, a night game at home. Corey’s played more games on the road than at Dodger Stadium so far. He’s excited to see what happens over the next stretch. 

“Hey,” Chase says, easy enough. “Can we chat for a moment?”

They’re more or less alone in the outfield during warmups. Corey knows, all of the sudden, what this is about. His stomach drops approximately to his knees. “Uh,” he says. “Sure.”

“A couple years ago, when I was still in Philly,” Chase says. He’s looking Corey in the eye, gaze light. It’s hard to look back. “We won a series against the Dodgers, went out after.”

“Yeah,” Corey says. “You don’t have to go into it. That was me.”

“Okay.” Chase is still looking at him. His face is neutral, which is almost terrifying; Corey wonders if this was ever going to go better at all.

“I didn't know if you remembered,” He scuffs his toe against the dirt. “I figured I couldn't have been the only one. Some starstruck kid after a game.”

“I didn't immediately recognize you,” Chase admits. “I didn’t forget, exactly, but it hit me during your home run game. I got a look at you at the right angle, I guess, and then I realized it’d been you.”

“Obviously I didn’t, like, forget.” Corey says, an admission of his own. What he doesn't say is he still gets off on everything he let Chase do to him. Not only the following months in the minors, but all the time, picturing it going further — Chase coming on his face or fucking him open, Corey biting his lip, trying not to make a sound. It's worse now they're in close proximity to each other. He's memorized half the sounds Chase makes, grunts of exertion, the way he sighs when he's done lifting during morning workouts. He's being punished by knowledge, all of it coalescing to make Chase so much more real than he was before. 

It’s only been about two weeks since he got called up. It feels like so much longer.

“We should talk about it,” Chase says. “Actually talk about it. I never thought we'd end up on the same team.” He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his face. “Not even my being traded — quite frankly, I had no idea how good you were until I got here and your name came up. Two years ago I thought even if you did make the show someday, when it happened I'd be done.”

Corey thought the same thing, when he got drafted, wondering if he'd get ever get a chance to match up against the guys he tried to play like. 

He knows Chase is right about needing to talk. 

“I can still play.” Chase’s eyes are dark. “I’m not just talking about this year. If the Dodgers want me next year, I'll sign. And you’ve more than earned your spot on the team; I can’t imagine you’ll be back in the minors next spring.”

“No, um, you're right.” Corey does his best to look back. He can’t get away with toeing the dirt now. “But can we wait?”

“Until after the postseason?”

“Yeah.”

“Makes sense.” Chase sighs, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “I didn't even consider this.”

When he picked Corey up two years ago, took him to a rented hotel room. Corey couldn't stop thinking about it. He wonders if Chase didn't, either, or if he only did once he was forced to. 

“What'd you think?” Corey asks, can't stop himself. “At that bar?”

“What?”

“When I came up to you.”

“And after?” Chase's eyebrows quirk. “You were enthusiastic. And then you said you were a ballplayer, which made sense because you looked like one, and I thought you had nice eyes.”

“Oh,” Corey says. 

“And then it was nice to talk, and then —” Chase shrugs. He doesn't need to say it. Corey knows what happened next. 

“Yeah.” 

“After the postseason,” Chase says. “You good with that?”

Corey is. And it’s better, not wondering what Chase knows. 

“Hopefully we won’t be talking until November,” he says, and Chase laughs and high-fives him, patting him on the hip after, casual and like they’re normal teammates. Corey goes to take batting practice, scrounges up more gum, plays a baseball game. They lose in 16 innings, in five and a half hours, which is ridiculous. He’s not upset about the loss, even though the Rockies are awful. But it’s late, and he finds himself looking at Chase as he gets dressed.

Chase catches him looking. He could say something, crack a joke, but he doesn’t. “Not all the games are like this,” he says. “You’ll feel better when you get home.”

Corey doesn’t remind him that he lives in a hotel. “I know,” he says. “Thanks.”

He’s not worried about the two of them talking about it. He knows Chase better now than he did two years ago, has the start of something between them — teammates, sure, maybe friends, if they have enough time together the rest of the season. 

Corey still sprawls across the hotel bed and jerks off, slow, exhaustion settling into his bones. Thinks about Chase’s mouth on his, the way Chase had leaned into him in that bar, asked him if he wanted to leave. The weight of Chase’s dick in his mouth, the sounds Chase made against his lips when the hotel door swung shut.

In the interim, there’s baseball to play together. November’s fine.

-

They clinch the division against the Giants, a shutout for Kershaw and eight runs for them. Corey’s soaked with champagne. It sticks to his skin and hair; he can taste it on his tongue and behind his teeth. The goggles leave red imprints in his face, and he runs his fingers over them. It's a badge of honor. Joc is screaming in his face and Alex is dumping beer down the back of his shirt and everything is great, he doesn't care about tomorrow's hangover, he wants this to last forever, through the NLDS and the NLCS and the World Series, they're the best team in the league, it's all theirs —

The party spills from the locker room out to a bar. They've got a game to play tomorrow, and it might be an automatic loss, the way everyone is drinking. No one checks Corey's ID at the bar, pitchers appear on the table, a round of shots and congratulations from the entire team for Kersh, who started the game and finished the game and only gave up one hit.

By the time they’re back to the hotel, it’s late. Corey was going to get a cab with Joc, but he lost him somewhere and Joc isn’t answering texts. Chase finds him, has a cab waiting, and Corey is so grateful he gets right in. 

“Careful,” Chase says as Corey fumbles closing the car door, his voice low and amused, but Corey just thanks him.

They pay, and get upstairs somehow. He ought to head to his own room, but he can’t stop himself from following Chase back to his, talking about how excited he is, how nervous, how he can’t wait. Chase is listening, mouth quirked at the corners; he pours Corey a glass of water and sits on the bed and listens.

Honestly, it isn’t even the alcohol, it’s the thrill of winning, compounded by Chase’s eyes on him and having Chase’s full attention again, the fact that he’s almost smiling as Corey babbles about his dumb feelings. 

They’re sitting close together, and Corey says, “Can we just,”, and they shouldn’t — he knows they shouldn’t — but when he sways in, Chase doesn’t stop him. He presses their mouths together, accidentally bites down on Chase’s lower lip, and Chase doesn’t stop him. He tugs at the hem of Chase’s shirt and Chase raises his arms to help him. He pulls his own shirt off, and Chase doesn’t stop him.

“God,” Chase says, and tips his head back, exposing the long tan line of his neck, a pale strip of skin under his shirt collar. Corey wants to put his mouth on Chase’s collarbone. He doesn't know if he's allowed to. But at some point this will end so he goes for it, and Chase inhales sharply, hand wrapping around the back of Corey's neck. “This is a bad idea,” he says, he has to say it, and Corey knows, but —

“I don't care,” he says, and, “Please,” and Chase lets him suck a mark, hidden right before where the neckline of his uniform will fall. 

“Make sure the door’s locked,” Chase tells him. His eyes are dark, and Corey meets his gaze, hopes Chase wants this as much as he does. He gets up and does it. He can hear their teammates in the hall, they'll have to be quiet, but he can do that. 

When he gets back on the bed, Chase unbuckles his belt, hands brushing up against Corey's stomach. He sets it neatly on the bed, and then he says, “What do you want?”

“Anything,” Corey says, which is desperate and he knows it, but Chase kisses him again, lets it linger, until Corey is grinding shamelessly against his hip, letting out small moans against his mouth. They could go slow if they wanted, but he needs it too urgently, and Chase is kissing him, running hands up his back and down over his ass, he's not going to be able to last. He shudders and falls over the edge, streaking come over Chase's side, biting back a moan. 

“Fuck,” Chase says, and he swipes his fingers over his stomach. 

“Sorry,” Corey mumbles, heat rushing to his cheeks, but Chase shakes his head and murmurs, “No, no,” and starts to jerk himself off. 

That Corey can help with and he does, both their hands moving on Chase's dick, until he's coming too, making his own mess. This is the hottest thing that's happened to Corey since last time. 

Chase rolls onto the bed, sighs. 

“If we win the whole thing, I bet this is good luck,” Corey mumbles. He knows he can't stay all night, but maybe an hour or two. Some guys are still partying, but some of them are conscious that the season’s not over yet, there’s more regular season games to play.

“Maybe,” Chase says. He's touching Corey, all over, like he's trying to make sure he's real. “You make your own luck, though, in the postseason.”

“I know, I know,” Corey says, and he lets his eyes drift closed. Before he can stop himself, he says, “We aren’t talking about this either, right?”

He hears Chase sigh, though he doesn’t think it’s directed at him. “Probably not.”

The adrenaline is gone now, in a haze of post-orgasm sleepiness. “Is it okay — can you wake me up?”

Chase says ‘yes,’ of course, and in an hour, he does. Corey goes back to his own room after checking to make sure the hallway is clear, rubbing absently at the mark Chase left on his neck. A couple of the bullpen guys come out of the elevator when he keys into his room, but they didn’t see him leave Chase’s. He gets in the shower, scrubs himself clean. 

They’ll make their own luck, he’s sure. They’ll do it.

-

Luck slips by them, and they don’t win the whole damn thing.

Instead they lose to the Mets in five games, an absolute shitshow of a series. Chase gets suspended for a slide into second base, appeals, gets roundly, fiercely booed by New York fans when his name is announced at Citi Field. They’re all playing nasty baseball, the kind that’s not fun, the kind that hurts. One game, they manage a comeback; the next game they give up thirteen runs. They lose their final game 3-2, a motherfucker of a score, where any small play might have changed the outcome, won them the series. Corey gets a hit in the loss. To no surprise, it doesn’t make him feel better.

Everything moves quick once they lose. Mattingly gets fired. The Mets sweep the Cubs in the NLCS. It’s hard to watch, wanting to be there so bad, but Corey does anyway. 

Last year he watched so much baseball — he ate it up, coming home from playing a minor league game and turning on highlights from the majors. This year that’s harder. He watches differently than he did before, comparing the teams still in contention to his, going through everything they did wrong and everything they did right and wondering why the balance was out of favor.

He watches the Mets lose the World Series spitefully. Some people think it's better to lose to the eventual winner, but watching the games, all he thinks is we should have been there. The Mets lose the series 4-1, giving the Royals their first championship in two decades. Corey knows the Dodgers could have done that for Los Angeles. First since ‘88.

There's always next year. 

He spends a lot of time training, hangs out with his brothers. He knows he has more than a good shot at making the team out of spring training, and he doesn't want to spend April and May back down in Oklahoma City. 

Chase re-signs with the Dodgers in later in the offseason, one year, seven million. Corey's happy about it. They never managed to talk, in the aftermath of Chase’s suspension and the series loss. Everyone scattered, disappointed; losing sucks, and watching that chance slip away felt awful. 

Still, a new season is a fresh start, and even if he still wants Chase, he’ll be okay. It's his own secret to hold. 

Before he knows it, he's packing up everything he owns, getting ready to fly out to Arizona. Joc’s blowing up his text messages, everyone's texting to brag about offseason training— Corey feels good. He’s ready. All 30 teams think this year will be their year, but it’s gonna be them. He feels it in his bones.

 _three_.

Chase feels all right to start the season, his 14th in the league. He flies from California to Arizona for spring training, and while he knows his age, it's not in a bad way. The team has a lot of new blood, they’re a lot more hopeful than the Phillies were the last few season. They're sure this year they'll achieve more. He likes the confidence.

Flying to Arizona instead of Florida is different. He checks into a strange hotel, is going to be at new facilities, facing new teams this March. There’s a whole new farm of rookies he doesn’t know.

And there’s Corey, of course, who still counts as one.

Chase doesn’t see him for a while. He ends up hanging out with some of the pitchers, listening to McCarthy’s endless stream of dry jokes, and catching up on who got married over the offseason, who had babies, meeting new additions to the team. Sometimes, he wonders if pitchers and catchers reporting early is to give them a little longer to get all their weirdness out before they have to face greater society, and the more civilized humans they play with every day.

They go out for a couple drinks, careful with it, knowing they’ll have to work the next morning. Justin finds him, and they spend an hour talking about nothing. That’s what Chase always misses over the offseason, having people around, being able to drift from teammate to teammate and fill up long days with chatter, or companionable silence.

He ends up near Corey at breakfast, sitting with him and a couple guys who won’t make the cut. It’s superficial conversation thanks to the crowd. Then they're separated again, and it's all the usual bullshit, being poked and prodded, but by new people. 

Relaxing into the routine of spring training still makes him feel good. 

They aren't alone together for a while. It's a coincidence, both ending up the cages at the same time. A couple other guys are hitting down at the end of the row, loud music blasting, paying them no mind. 

Chase inclines his head, and Corey does the same. After a long moment, Corey huffs, the ghost of a smile carving angles across his face. 

He's all lit up by the Arizona sun, tanning quick, and he looks good. More sure of himself in his limbs, in the way he moves. 

They never really talked about it. Corey texted a congrats when he signed, and a generic text around the New Year he must have sent to the entire team. Not much more.

“You ready?” Chase asks him, finally. “You here to stay?”

“Yes,” Corey says. He sounds confident. That's good, Chase thinks, they can use that all year.

“Then show me what you got.”

Corey hits, steadily and surely. His swing’s improved. There's confidence in his stance that wasn't there last September — the shaky amazement is gone. 

“Alright,” Chase tells him when he's done, holding his house out for his gloves and bat so he can wipe his face. Corey made steady contact. “You hit like that all season, we got something to look forward to.”

“Thanks,” Corey says. “I've been working all winter, they gave me a lot to look at — actually, there's video, if you have a minute this afternoon?”

“I should, yeah,” Chase says. “I'll see you then.”

He steps into the cage himself, takes a deep breath, until all he's focusing on is the whistling swing of his bat and the repeated, steady thunk it makes when he hits the ball. Corey's gone by the time Chase is satisfied, but they find each other later. Talk about baseball. It works.

Spring training games start. There's time until opening day to work out all the kinks, get the roster to click. It does, as expected — the front office put together a good team. Roberts is the new manager, and Chase thinks the team will do well under him. Good communication, clear expectations. He gets asked to keep an eye on the rookies. They’ve noticed him helping out Corey. Thankfully he’s had plenty of practice keeping a blank face. 

-

The season itself starts. They open with a 15-0 win over the Padres, take the series; they lose a few to the Giants, take most games against the Diamondbacks; there’s a shitty streak of losses in May, and then they starting stringing together wins, creeping up on the division.

Corey’s on fire. Chase thinks he’ll win Rookie of the Year, if he keeps it up. Everyone wants a piece of him, the media, the fans, and Corey deals with it with a ducked head and a smile. 

They spend more and more time together. Corey sits with him at meals, on the plane. Their lockers are next to each other. Chase doles out pieces of advice, tries to deflect unwanted attention away when he can. He was older when he went through all this for this first time. He could contain himself better, was more generally reserved. He’d watched college teammates make their debuts, knew how close to play his feelings to his chest. Corey’s got an open face, smiles more easily, gets more visibly frustrated. He swings between liking the attention and hating it. The Dodgers have media people, but Chase can pull him aside to review video, wait until Corey’s relaxed before telling him stories from ‘03 and ‘04, or even when he won the World Series and cursed on television and the minor uproar that followed. And he watches Corey improve, on the field and in front of the cameras, confronting n all aspects of the major leagues. 

Above it all, they’re playing good baseball.

“You keep getting better,” he says to Corey on the plane, somewhere over the middle of the United States, farmland stretching out long and flat underneath them. 

Corey smiles, and flushes, and Chase bumps their shoulders together. 

“I'm just trying to help the team,” Corey says. 

“Take the compliment,” Chase tells him. 

“Alright,” Corey says. “Thanks.”

When they get to the hotel Corey comes over, like he often does on road trips. He’s got video from his past few games, wants Chase’s opinion on his swing. Chase doesn’t do the video game tournaments the younger guys are into, but he’s got his own room, and he’s always willing to let Corey in, talk with him about the game.

They don’t touch; Chase tries not to think about touching, forces himself not to picture Corey on the bed, spread out for him and begging. They’re reached an equilibrium, built something between them. Chase wants to keep building.

-

His return to Philadelphia is a hot August day, and when they fly in, the city rises out of the thick summer air, familiar as ever. He's okay, looking down through the window of the plane. He won a ring here, won pennants; it was half of his twenties and half of his thirties; it was a good run. 

“You excited to go back?” Justin asks, pushing his sleep mask off his face. Chase doesn’t know how he managed to nap. The plane’s loud right now, all the rookies arguing over cards. 

“Sure,” he says. “Missed it the last time, right?”

“Please,” Justin says. “You know what I mean.’

Chase looks back down at the city. They’re starting their descent. “I’m looking forward to it,” he says. “I’ve been looking forward to it.” He doesn’t mark off that many games. There are too many to worry about each and every one. The first game back against the Mets after the slide, sure, mentally preparing himself to get thrown at. This is different. “Guess it’s time to find out what the visitor’s clubhouse is like.”

Justin laughs, and unscrews the cap on his water bottle, drinking some before locking his tray table back in place. They land, straggle off the plane to bus to the hotel. 

The media all want a piece of him, filming the Dodgers showing up at their hotel. Chase knows the baseball-loving public will too, and there's a lot of them out there. He orders in room service instead of going out to eat. Corey texts him a series of question marks, and Chase says, didn't want to deal with everything. There'll be time for that later. 

He's not nervous. Most of his baseball nerves are dead by now. But he's facing down an inevitable goodbye. Philly came west to play at Dodger Stadium and he caught up with his old teammates, the remaining guys he was friends with. 

Looking out the window at the city doesn’t feel exactly like coming home. 

-

Game day is overwhelming. The stands — sold out — are a sea of red. The crowd is unceasing in their cheering, when he steps up to the plate to lead off. They delay the first pitch. Ryan’s standing at first base smiling at him. Still weird, looking at him from this angle on the field. He waves, and the cheering only grows louder. 

It's a welcome and a send-off all at once, and still terrifying, to be loved that much, almost ten years after winning the city a ring. He doesn't quite have his bearings, his first at-bat. He strikes out. 

Back in the dugout, he takes a breath, shakes out his shoulders, making sure to stay loose. The crowd is standard levels of hostile to every Dodger who isn't him, and isn't that a humbling thing. 

He’s more settled, next time through the order, but he flies out.

The third time, Howie hits a two-run homer, and the cheering is loud for him as he makes his way to the plate, even though his teammate just scored. He waits until it dies down, and then Velasquez throws a fastball, and that’s a home run for him, too. His teammates urge him back out, and he waves his helmet. Thanks again, even if he doesn’t know who means it most, him or the crowd.

And then the top of the seventh. Mariot’s on the mound. Bases loaded, two outs, four runs already scored. He breathes in as he steps up to the plate. One ball, one strike; the third pitch is a fastball, and he sends it over the fence in right.

He takes his second curtain call. Thirteen years for the Phillies. It might not be coming home, but it’s a good way to say goodbye. 

-

“That was,” Corey says haltingly. “A grand slam. Oh my god.”

‘It was pretty good,” Chase says, allows himself a small smile.

“Pretty good,” Corey says. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Good, then,” Chase says. “Overall.” 

He didn’t know what to expect when Corey knocked on his door, empty-handed, dressed in grey sweatpants and a team-issued shirt. He doesn’t have the iPad with him he usually brings when he wants to talk baseball. Chase let him in, because Chase is a sucker when it counts the most, and he’s let Corey in so many times in the months before. 

“I don’t ever wanna be traded,” Corey says. “I want to be a Dodger forever, but if I was, and I came back — I don’t know if I could do that. I told the media you have zero heartbeat. Holy shit.”

“Hopefully you don’t have to,” Chase says. He knows what Corey means, though. The Dodgers fans love him. Give them time, and they’ll adore him that same all-encompassing way, where he can show up in the wrong colors and drive in runs for the wrong team and let the love wash over him as he rounds the bases. “You could, though. That’s how good you’ll be.”

“Yeah, but not yet,” Corey says.  

They look at each other for a moment, and Chase doesn’t know what Corey sees, but Corey says, “Can I — ” and reaches out, and Chase, voice hoarse, says, “Yes.”

His blinds are open; they’re high up above Philadelphia, the orange nighttime city light spilling in. He’s not supposed to want this anymore. This isn’t how he’s supposed to celebrate, letting the team’s star rookie kiss him, two years after he fucked up and did it the first time. Winning one game doesn’t mean you get everything you want.

“I probably shouldn’t tell you how much I think about it,” Corey says. “Everything that’s happened — I think about it all the time.” He laughs a little. “You know what’s dumb? Watching you play like that, and everyone cheering, and I kept thinking how you’re on our team now.” He tilts his head towards the window. “All those people, you’re not gonna win with them, you’re gonna win with us.”

‘It’s not,” Chase says. “It’s not dumb.” How many times has he thought the same thing back at Corey? How good he is, how he’s basically Chase’s rookie, how when all the dust settles they’ll have been on this team together. 

“And I want to kiss you again,” Corey says, like it's a secret, his head ducked and smiling, smiling. It was a secret, Chase remembers; months in the minors and Corey held onto it. “I shouldn't tell you that either.”

“You shouldn't,” Chase says, it's all true, but he reaches out and touches Corey's wrist, wonders if Corey's pulse is racing in his ears too. 

“Oh good,” Corey breathes out, and Chase leans up to kiss him, chaste and overwhelming, everything he's not allowed himself to want for a full year, everything he couldn’t bring himself to say. 

They kiss and kiss, until Chase manages to pull himself away, but Corey's face is stubbornly set. “I'm staying,” he says. “You need to celebrate. And I want to.”

Tomorrow they play another game, and hopefully they'll win it too. 

“All right,” Chase says, and goes to lock the door. Corey is warm and smells like cotton and Old Spice. Chase curves his hand around Corey's waist. “Tell me — ” 

“I don’t care,” Corey says. “Please.”

“What do you want?” Chase asks. He’s asked Corey before, and Corey was so happy to take anything Chase gave him. This feels more permanent, not fleeting like picking Corey up at the bar, or smothered in the nervous anticipation of the postseason. “You can have it, anything, I swear.”

“It's like you want me to come in my pants,” Corey says, and takes a step back to strip off his shirt, gets his pants off, dropping both on the floor until he's standing there in white socks and Nike slides and boxers printed with baseballs. 

Chase raises his eyebrows, looking down, and Corey says, “shut up, they were a joke,” before he steps out of them too. He pulls Chase's shirt off himself, knuckles brushing over Chase's stomach, hands lingering over his shoulders, his chest. They work their way over to the bed, and Chase pushes Corey down and tells him not to move his hands, goes down on him until he's shaking and choking back needy, desperate sounds. He gets Corey to beg, all whispered pleas, and then he lets Corey come, salt-bitter in his mouth, body shuddering under his hands. 

After he's caught his breath, Corey jerks him off, blue eyes focused on Chase's face. He keeps tonguing his lower lip, and Chase thinks about all the time they could have with one another, everything they'll be able to do together. 

They crowd into the hotel shower, after. Eventually, Corey's roommates will come looking for him, but they have time to kiss under the spray until one of then gets too cold for it to be fun any longer. 

Chase hands over one of the shirts he packed, Dodger blue with a torn-out collar. It's too small across Corey's shoulders, gets damp from water droplets almost immediately. “Looking good,” he says. 

Plucking at the neck, Corey says, “Yeah, real fashion-forward,” before he goes silent. 

“We've put talking off for a year, but — ” 

“No, I know.”

But, Chase thinks, it doesn't have to be that hard. 

“I'm not going to stop hanging out, or start giving you the cold shoulder in the clubhouse, no matter what,” he says. Not after the season they've had so far. “Or stop going over video with you, or talking about the best of the league.”

“Okay.”

“What do you want?” Chase asks. He’s asked Corey that a lot. It feels heavier right now. 

“To win tomorrow,” Corey says, and laughs hesitantly. “To win a playoff series after that.” Chase raises his eyebrows and Corey says, “No, I know what you mean.” He pauses. “I don’t want to wait until after the postseason again, to figure it out, to do anything. That ended with me watching the Royals win the World Series drinking shitty beer by myself.”

“Okay.” Chase looks at him. Corey’s not the same person he was a year ago. He’s not the gawky 19-year-old in a bar who Chase never should have taken back to a hotel and gotten a blowjob from.

“I want to win with you,’ Corey says. “And I don’t want to — have to stop. We don’t have to figure it all out, we can do that later, I don’t care.” He’s squeezing his hands together, the skin white and taut at the knuckles. “But I wanna keep getting to do this.”

And isn't that the whole, terrifying thing, Chase wanting it too. 

“There's no guarantees after the playoffs,” he murmurs. “I know you know that, but I want to make sure.”

Corey's got 15 years in the show ahead of him, is staring down more All-Star seasons and Silver Sluggers and maybe MVP votes too. He'll be a Dodger until they can't use him anymore, and perhaps longer. Chase had that, he knows what it's like; he did a good job. He's not that ballplayer anymore.

Corey says, “I do.”

-

They don't win this year either. They breeze through the NLDS, but they run into the Cubs in the NLCS and then they're home watching the team that beat them break a 108 year old curse. 

A bunch of the guys hanging around LA watch together at Justin's house. Chase goes, and Cody's there. They watch Game 7: Davis’s home run, the rally, the heroics, and then the final out. 

“No,” he says, in response to Corey's unanswered question. When the trophy came out, Justin shut off the TV. “Watching it doesn't get easier.” Losing in 2009 might have been the worst — Chase would happily never lose a World Series again — but this isn't fun either. 

“Figured,” Corey says, sighing. “Sucks.”

“Yep,” Chase says. 

He tells the rest of the guys he's designated driver but it's an excuse to take Corey home, knowing he’ll wake up with Corey starfished across the bed besides him, mouth open, taking up too much space. There are upsides to the offseason if you know where to look. 

Chase actually wakes up to Corey on top of him, staring at him. He blinks sleep out of his eyes, shifts under Corey’s weight, clears his throat. “Good morning to you too.”

“I'm staying in California for some of the offseason,” Corey says, rolling over, stealing glances at Chase in between looking at the ceiling and the blankets. “I decided last night. Gotta go home first, but I thought it was time, you know? And I have the apartment now, all the training facilities are here, the weather's good …” he shrugs. “I'll be around, I guess.”

“Well,” Chase says. “I do live here.”

“You’re from here.”

“Yes.”

Corey says, “So— you’ll be around too.”

“That’s the plan,” Chase says, and Corey rolls his eyes extravagantly, but he’s beaming. 

November turns into December turns into January. They see each other more often than they don’t. Corey does publicity events and comes over to Chase’s house and complains about tired he is from a full day of talking to people. Chase listens and orders in food and turns on the Panthers game. They work out with everyone else who stayed in California for the winter. Corey’s always asking questions, looking for ways to improve at the plate. They go to the beach, because they live in California and they can. 

His contract’s up, his status is up in the air. Other teams make offers, and Chase considers them, some more seriously than others. He texts Corey updates: look out next season when you’re coming into second. The Dodgers don’t make it final until February. Corey’s at home when it happens, visiting North Carolina, texting Chase blurry photos of him and his brother at bars filled with college students and clearer photos of the sparse frost decorating his backyard. 

They’ll have at least one more year. He doesn’t know what’ll happen after — if his knees give up for good, or they win the World Series and he decides it’s better to go out on top.

In the meantime, they’ll wait together for spring.

**Author's Note:**

> i barely futzed with schedules (the phillies probably flew out that night after playing the dodgers in 2014, not the next morning) but, since this involved a fair amount of research (bbref forever), some fun links:
> 
> [dodgers promote seager to majors](http://www.latimes.com/sports/dodgers/dodgersnow/la-sp-dn-dodgers-corey-seager-20150903-story.html) followed by the entire 3 and a half hours (and two hits!) of [corey seager's first mlb game](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cgwikVSC1Ng&feature=youtu.be).
> 
>  
> 
> [corey seager gets the silent treatment after his first home run](http://m.mlb.com/cutfour/2015/09/13/149055758/dodgers-give-corey-seager-silent-treatment-after-first-home-run)
> 
>  
> 
> [chase utley really wasn't allowed to play the infield as a college freshman](http://articles.latimes.com/2009/oct/31/sports/sp-world-series31)
> 
>  
> 
> [chase utley's triumphant return to philadelphia](http://www.latimes.com/sports/dodgers/la-sp-dodgers-phillies-20160816-snap-story.html) with a bonus of [the dodgers appreciating his leadership](http://philadelphia.cbslocal.com/2017/10/09/dodgers-chase-utleys-leadership/).


End file.
